


the night is safe

by netherprince



Series: the mothjon prophecies [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cryptids, Angst, Depression, Moth!Jon, References to Alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24226951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netherprince/pseuds/netherprince
Summary: moths know that the day might be warm, but the night is safe. when the cold reaches towards your bones, though, it can be easy to forget this.
Series: the mothjon prophecies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748698
Comments: 7
Kudos: 99





	the night is safe

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally just written in less than an hour, spur of the moment, unedited angst about jon from before he met georgie. it's... ambiguously canon.

The day is warm, but the night is safe.

That’s what he learned when he was small, and he holds this knowledge in his chest, buried under the lessons he’s been given. The moth watches the cold sky, the blank, black slate that stretches from horizon to horizon. Every so often a blink of light breaks through the monotony, but the clouds still feel just above his reach, suffocating in their endlessness.

On this night, though, he sees lighter grey wisps curling up to the sky. The moth tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek on the cracked boards of his roof to track the source of the smoke. It disappears down into the canopy less than a mile away, and the young moth’s fingers curl in his shirt. 

The night is safe because the humans cannot see you.

His grandmother's words twist around him like the smoke caresses the treetops, but they’re blown away by the same breeze. Hiding did not save her, only ensured that she was alone until his parents died. The moth’s wings shudder slightly, but he shakes his head, pushing the feelings under his ribs until they no longer reach him.

It’s been several seasons of drifting, now, and he’s still alone. No other moths cross through his woods, and anything else here pulls magic tight around itself until he cannot see them, cannot find them. 

He is alone, completely.

Maybe that’s why he pushes away from the roof, wings catching the air with a quiet buzz to keep him from falling to the earth. He twists through the space around his hovel, then ducks between tree trunks and branches that would grab at him.

The night is safe, but it is so cold. The humans have a fire.

They are not hard to track. They never seem to think anything is around them, despite how thick the forest is with even mundane life. Chatter spills across the grass with their drinks that reek of rot, echoing off the leaves he has hidden himself in. 

There are four of them, two leaning into each other closely. One is holding things over their fire, while the last is dragging a box closer to the gathering. The smell of cooking meat settles under the rotten scent, mixing in a way that makes his head spin. He watches as the one cooking sets down their metal stick to wrap their arms around the one with the box, pulling them down. Laughter breaks up the chattering speech, the first pair pressing their faces together while the latter grab each other’s hands. 

He stares down at his own hands, fitting his fingers in the same configuration. His mother pulled him along like this once, he thinks, but it doesn’t feel the same. The moth’s tail curls around the branch he’s perched upon, and he watches as dead leaves spiral down. 

One of the humans looks up at the leaves, pulled away from pressing faces by the noise. He watches them as they stare past him, his dullness pushing away their gaze. Their shoulders twitch and they go back to chattering, a smile replacing the curious frown.

At this distance, he can barely feel the heat of their fire. The next breeze makes him shiver lightly, season-of-dying-leaves ice in the air. Maybe that’s why he drops carefully down from his branch, wings flicking down to halt his momentum just before his feet touch the ground. He settles lightly instead of crashing, barely making a sound as he moves through the fallen leaves.

It takes more effort to pull the dullness around himself this close to other beings, but he can feel the dancing warmth now. The stink of rotten things is stronger, as are the sharp notes of their speech, but he ignores it the best he can to stand as close as he dares.

Now he can see their faces clearly, read their relaxed joy like wolf tracks in snow. Their eyes pinch and they show teeth more, blunt things that speak to less violence than he expected. From the stories, the moth expected slavering maws, gilded tongues, eyes that burn like embers, but all he sees are soft beings that chatter back and forth easily. He tilts his head as one of them stands, their arms outstretched and voice raising. 

The human sings, or he thinks it’s singing- it’s sharper than birdsong, and doesn’t roll in his chest like his grandmother’s voice, but there is a melody that he can follow. Tail swaying above the leaf litter, he watches the flames dance across their face, casting shadows that twist their features into something almost like the stories he’s been told. 

Later in life, he finds himself lacking in the words to describe why he peels away his layers of protection. It’s not that he doesn’t know the feelings that drove him, but how can he ever explain the depth of them? How can he impress the fierce need to be seen, to be spoken to, to be smiled at?

They don’t notice him at first. The other three are focused on the one lost in song, but something gives him away. Be it a flick of the tail, or a shift of his foot on the leaves, something draws one human’s attention.

They cry out sharply, the sound tearing across his antennae like jagged stones, and the singer cuts off immediately. Four sets of eyes focus on him, and he raises his hands in the same way the singer did, palms towards them and joints loose. The moth even tries to mimic their earlier expressions, the quiet happiness that he was able to read without translation.

For a moment, everything is quiet. 

He goes to lower his hands, the lower set dropping faster than the ones above, but he jolts at the even sharper screeches echoing around him. The humans move quickly, falling over themselves and each other. One grabs a small metal box, but he’s more focused on another, because they pull one of the long branches from the fire, waving it in his direction.

The moth shakes his head frantically, eyes wide as he holds his hands up again. When the box flashes brighter than even the sun, he recoils, wings flaring out to stabilize himself. Before he can recover, the branch crashes at his feet and something- two somethings- bash into his face and one of his wings. Blood immediately trickles down his face, and he screeches back at them, nearly tripping over his feet to get away from the fire reaching towards him. 

More objects are thrown at him, cutting and bruising his arms, and he cries out as another hits his wing. He can feel with perfect clarity as an edge tears, more flashes driving him backwards. The moth springs away when one of them pulls something out of their bags, metal and wood shining dangerously in the firelight. He bolts into the trees again just in time, an ear-splitting boom silencing every other noise just before a branch explodes into splinters by his head.

It’s dangerous to fly with a torn wing, but he launches himself into the air all the same, his hands snatching at the trees around him to move himself higher. He scrambles through the branches almost blindly, the noise still ringing in his skull taking away from his sight. 

Stupid fool of a moth. He knew better than this, knew better to let his guard down- for what? A fire? Some humans? He gained nothing and could have lost everything, and everything his family gave for him would have meant less than the dust they left behind.

His wings are aching by the time he ducks back into his hovel, the torn edge screaming in pain. The moth buries his face in one of the cloths he’s found left behind, trying to staunch the bleeding that has streaked down his mottled cheek.

As the pain builds and his shame rises high enough to drown him, he ignores the deep hollow growing behind his ribs. He promises himself, then, that he won’t be such a fool again. He will cling to his lessons, he won’t give in to some petty weakness. He won’t listen to the ache in his chest.

He will keep the cold of isolation close to his bones as a reminder of his most basic lesson:

The night is safe because you cannot be _seen_.


End file.
